Chapter 42

In the final hour of the waning Backward Day, Miss Yalilan's main force at last located the baron's crimson palace, guided by the sorceress's divination.

The palace was tucked inside a village abandoned since the Bloody War, its glass roof crowned by the dilapidated spire of a Church of the Black Moon.

Standing before the statue of the Black Moon Goddess, Yalilan looked down through a veil of ink-dark clouds drifting south from Mondra. The twin moons vanished behind them, and rain drummed across the ground and the corpses beneath it.

The Pure-Blood Tiger ordered his men to search the underground halls. Following the sorceress's omens, they opened several hidden doors and found a group of girls dressed as princesses.

Each clutched a porcelain doll, hair curled and ribboned to match. When the servants tried to explain what had happened, the girls stared back blankly.

Only when they spoke of the girls' foster father—Baron Cambera, killed by demon-hunters—did every face twist in grief or fury. Some wailed aloud, clutching crucifixes and swearing to avenge the baron's death.

When the servant relayed the scene to Yalilan, the Viscountess was studying the letter demon-hunter L had left for her. She folded the will, her voice flat:

"The truths neither God nor the baron taught them, the world will teach. Send them back to their mothers. Farmers are the hardest-working people alive; the crops will show them when to bow and when to stand straight."

After the servant departed, Yalilan sighed as if to herself, "Farmers are also the basest people alive." She summoned another servant and dispatched search parties with strict orders: Bring L back alive—or bring the corpse.

Among the searchers were Macquire and Zod of Baron's squad. Beneath a splintered crucifix they found the mangled carcass of the God-cursed monster and the scattered bodies of nuns.

Zod took a swig from his flask. "Has that lunatic evolved? A Black-Iron hunter carving up a pack of Bronze monsters?"

Macquire wiped away tears and clenched his fists. "I'll keep fighting—for L's sake."

"Forget whether he's dead—what exactly is his 'will'?" Zod asked.

Macquire froze. Uncertain, he offered, "Love and peace?"

"Wrong. Mad justice."

Zod crouched, studying the human remains still lodged in the monster's jaws. He recognized the tattered cloth as Baron's uniform.

At the same moment, deep in a Mondra jungle, Faliad of the Iron Thorn Gang reined in his horse and consulted an enchanted compass. His thick brows knitted; he had circled the forest all day, memorizing every trunk. Surely the bank robbers couldn't be hiding in the sky?

Sky... no. Faliad's eyes snapped open. The compass hadn't pointed upward—it had pointed below. He wasn't tracking the thieves but the stolen gold. Where better to stash coin than under the oldest trees?

---

My head aches... my whole body aches... that cursed monster was too strong. Am I dead? The ground feels damp and soft—hardly hell. Why do I assume I'd end up in hell anyway?

Baron opened his eyes and pushed himself up. He found himself in a sea of cerulean flowers beneath a matching sky, stars and moons conspicuously absent.

He patted his face, chest, arms—everything the monster had torn apart was whole again.

"Awake at last, Dreamer?" An ethereal voice drifted from behind.

Baron's hand flew to his gun. He spun around and saw a girl in a black bonnet and dress, perched sidesaddle on a black sheep. A bell-tipped crook rested across her lap.

Her skin was porcelain-white, lips bloodless. Silver curls spilled from beneath her bonnet, and her winter-lake eyes studied him without a ripple—like a beautiful doll devoid of life.

"Who are you? Where is this? Why bring me here?"

"You may call me the Shepherdess. This realm was woven by the Lord of Dreams, separate from Prol and Britain. You are the chosen Dream-seeker."

She slipped from the sheep's back; bells chimed softly as the animal wandered off to graze.

Lord of Dreams... Dream-seeker...

Baron's mind raced, sifting memories for anything matching those words. He recalled Carmen's chant the day they signed their contract-knight oath—something about a paradise created by a being worshipped and then murdered by his own people.

Could paradise be this very dream?

A space detached from Prol and Britain... Britain?

Baron turned stiffly. "What exactly do you mean by Britain?"

The Shepherdess replied in a monotone, "The full name is the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, whose crown prince is—"

"Stop. I remember now."

The Shepherdess fell silent, watching him like a machine.

Baron pushed aside the dread triggered by Britain and Timed Death Sentence, focusing on Carmen's song and the Shepherdess's words.

Worshipped... killed... Dream-seeker...

"So the Lord of Dreams was murdered by his own followers, and for some reason the dream chose me to retrieve his treasure?"

The Shepherdess shook her head. "The Lord did not die; he waits for a chance to return. You are to recover his body so he may come back."

Recover a body... but he isn't dead?

Baron lifted the withered kidneys he'd stashed in his ring. "You mean these?"

The Shepherdess's frozen eyes flickered. She reached for them—then Baron snatched them back, eyebrow raised. "I'm supposed to hand over hard-won relics on the promise of a vague reward?"

Without a word the Shepherdess loosened her collar, revealing pale shoulders and the hollow of her throat.

"Wait—what are you doing?"

"Since you opened your eyes, fourteen of your twenty-eight glances lingered on my chest. I assumed you desired my body."

Baron flushed. "I was checking for hidden weapons."

She weighed her own chest with clinical detachment. "They are real."

Baron sighed. "Why did the dream choose me, what do I get out of it, and how did I travel from Britain to Prol?"

"The Lord's right hand chose you. It carried you through the Shadow-path to Prol. As for reward..." Her voice remained soft. "Gather the Lord's body and you shall receive a third of the Dream Law Fragments—enough to rise above Gold."

Above Gold? Baron frowned. He thought Gold was the pinnacle—mastery of one-third of a profession's Law. What lay beyond?

"When did the body choose me? I only just got these kidneys—"

"The Lord's right hand resides within you. You may summon it at will."

Summ—?

The thought had barely formed when a colorful joker card appeared in his palm.

Baron's eye twitched. He remembered fog, blood dripping onto a card...

"That card is the right hand's manifestation. Your blood resonated with the relic; the Lord judged you worthy..."

The Shepherdess glanced at the sky. "Time grows short. Your body and mind are not yet fully mended—linger too long and the dream will claim you."

Drowsiness swept over him. The Shepherdess took the kidneys, eased him back among the flowers, and inclined her head. "Until next time, my lord."

Her last image was of her bending down, fingers brushing a blossom, her expression unexpectedly gentle.

"Wait—"

Baron jerked awake, heart racing. He was sitting on a moving bus, London streets flashing past the window—and inside the bus, an armed robber was pointing a gun.

An armed... robber?

???